Psychephagoria
by phantasorgasmic
Summary: Humans were disgusting, the shadow mused. The way the huddle masses meshed together like one big entity; full of heightened sensitivities and tormented awareness. Like they were bigger than any of us. The demon agreed wholeheartedly. Discontinued.
1. Asylum

A psychephagoric is attributed to the Greek "psyche" and "phagy" which transliterates into "one who eats minds." This devouring of mental processes, although usually not taken as seriously as the term implies, often occurs in societal events involving not-so-human beings. Oblivious to these actions, humans give into these 'mind-eaters,' and become the prey.

She was not a being that one would object to saying was beautiful. Pale, rosy cheeks aligned with a tall nose, plump lips, almond eyes and framed by an oval-shaped face. That winding dance that her shadow-less form did when she heard the sweet cries of those lost pulled the naked eye in; that innocence that sweetly wafted through the room, enveloping everyone in a blinding, optimistic perfume. Those fangs that stayed tucked under her smile. Psychephagoria.

* * *

><p>It was his birthday. A morbid celebration of the day his deceased mother had brought this little babe into the world with his innocent eyes blind to the world and his fists clenched tightly. A day commemorating the moment he lost his innocence. This year, he spent his day with his knees drawn to his chest, rocking back and forth slightly upon his heels, feeling the seconds tick past his life. The children locked up like dolls, faces frozen in a perpetual look of horror.<p>

Was he the only sane one in this masquerade asylum? The blood that splattered the floors made his body lurch forward and his empty stomach emptied out. He cried of self-pity. _Come_, he seemed to beg. _Help me_. It was a miracle he had any hope at all. And so the shadows continued to creep up the walls, replacing with the bright red blood with a foreboding black sheen.

_ Call for me_, it begged. _Spit out those accursed words._

"My name is," the boy whispered in between haggard breathes. "Ciel Phantomhive."

_ What do you want_? the shadow asked.

"I want," his eyes shut tightly, he bit his bottom lip until it bled. "I want the power to exact revenge upon those who have wronged the name of Phantomhive!"

_ Then I shall place upon your despaired eye this seal—ah, an intruding masquerader_.

Another shadow, brightened by the fire spreading beneath their feet, emerged into the room with a weapon at hand. The boy cringed at the intense heat that his caduceus stamp was giving off at that moment. Time seemed to freeze as the figures in the rooms stopped in the middle of their gruesome experiments. Hues of orange and red raged around the shadow as another being was borne from it.

"What a disgusting smell wafting around the room," the shadow's emerald eyes pierced through the hell-like visage.

_ What a disgusting sound reverberating in my eardrums_.

"You're taking my prey," the voice seemed to sneer in its words.

_ I could say the same to you_, a pitch-black shadow grinned, showing off its teeth. Before the other shadow could respond, it lurched forward with a clawed hand and grabbed the caged boy by the face and reached a finger into his right eye. Tears flowed from the soiled soul, the foul scar burning his skin, wrought with sorrow and paved by injustice. Blood dripped its way down his cheeks to join the dirt and grime.

A second later, the shadows were dancing in a world of fire.

* * *

><p><strong>Hello. I'll not lie and say this is my first account here, but I also won't disclose my previous identity. Or identities, if you will. Firstly, I recommend you giving me feedback, or else I'll find reason not to update. Secondly, this story is not definite. It'll phase in and out of the arced storylines, but will always tell the story of one shadow. It starts here, the phantasmagorical journey of a shadow and a demon; a pitiful mourning queen and her canine fiend.<strong>


	2. Gloria

Ira Grymelsen loved _words_, how they wrapped around tainted lips and shielded their visage from others' gentle touches, how they danced around nude skin and brought fire to passionate eyes. But with anything she liked, there were things she hated as well. Those particular words that seemed to be thrown around like gravel and manure at undeserving subjects. She hated words for this reason. How despicable the word 'suddenly' was, such an unaesthetic word for discussing such a short expanse of time. How disgusting the word 'war' was, a brief syllable passed between whispered conversations that could never fully explain its horrors.

But at this specific moment, she hated one particular word that had somehow wormed its way into the human languages. 'Demon.'

Ira was by far an old-league reaper; that is, she was in the business long before all of them had been recalled into the Reaper Dispatch Society. That made it all the harder to recruit her, but she had pointedly refused their offer to place her as the Elder of the Management level and stated that she would rather freelance as she had been doing for centuries upon end.

If there was another thing she hated, it was contracts. And right now, not only could she sense company reapers lurking about, she could also _smell_ the contract tattooed onto this demon. She looked down at her pocket watch and drew her scythe, slaying the nearest Irishman who dared approach her. It was a cold January morning, and the movements of humans tended to be sluggish at this time of year. They were still weighed down by fireplace hearths and New Year's stuffing.

"What brings you here?" she said fluidly without a hint of spite in her voice. "One would think you've had enough soul stealing by now." This was the same demon that had stolen her meal ticket not a year ago. How could she not forget who he was? He had that same firey look in his eyes, that same panther-like litheness to his movements, that same _disgusting scent_ that followed him around.

"One would think a reaper wouldn't meddle in demon's business," the man smirked, breaking neck by neck as the explosions of the dynamite became louder, closer, just a little more intimate.

"Only if the demon is interfering with the reaper's," she snarled, gripping her scythe tightly as she brought it full sweep into an arc around her, blood raining down from disembodied people onto their clothing. _How wondrous the smell was_. It almost masked the scent that the demon gave off, him and that Faustian seal. She looked at her pocket watch again. "Fifty-four down, one to go. The Queen has a handful these days, does she not?" She chuckled and shaded her eyes from the winter sun and watched as the man raced up the stairs of London Tower. She would not interfere in his quest; she'd done her research in advance, and she couldn't stop the inevitable from happening.

Hellfire. All of London seemed to tremble as the north watchtower of the Tower of London crumbled into pieces, the rest of the building slowly following suit. Ira was thankful that civilians had fled long before this had occurred; the damage was catastrophic. Trees were billowing in fire, their branches creaking as though they were mourning their ends. Ashes created a looming gray cloud between the sun and the ground; the shadows consumed more and more of the landscape. She growled, pushing past the demon and set her goal on finding the last remaining soul before his cinematic record disappeared altogether.

The wind billowed in her hair as she raced towards the collapsing building. It wasn't going to hold up for long; the fortress was ancient and crumbling with age; it had resisted countless attacks and invasions to the throne. It was only a matter of time before it collapsed upon the gaping hole the dynamite had fed into the castle's infrastructure. The Irishmen had certainly done their job; scraps of red material peeked up from rubble, remnants of redcoats that had perished guarding the place. Since 1066, the building had undergone countless sieges. Taking it down would damage Britain's morale for long to come; she rolled her eyes to think of what would happen to its reputation. It was reassuring to see that the dynamite had only caused major damage to the main tower.

She dodged over the last archway before reaching the source of the explosion, her eardrums still ringing from the sheer noise. Another shadow greeted her, and her eyes narrowed.

"Late," the Undertaker greeted her, chuckling to himself as his raised his scythe from the position it was most gruesomely protruding through the decapitated head of the dead Irishman. Cinematic reels were already flying around the hollow aperture the attack had caused. The only thing to do was sit and watch.

No secrets were left from the dead.

Inside the wreckage was a maze only made more complex by rubbish and caved in walls. She dodged into the opening that had been blasted open from the dynamite. The tower was quickly crumbling; she had to get to the reels before they were finished playing. The ceilings were painted in red and through holes in them she could see the sky. She lost feeling in her chest as the feeling desensitized her; the sight of another's blood blending in with her own fiery tendrils of hair. She swept it back irritatedly and joined the Undertaker.

"_Why?" the flame-headed man furiously slammed his dirty palms on the antique desk. "This deed—"_

"_Did you not say you wanted to save your kind?" the figure sitting in the chair was never visible for some reason, no matter what angle he was viewed from. "Did you not say that England must be punished against its prejudice against the Irishmen?"_

"_But to sack their prized—" He was interrupted again by a cackle._

"_And you want to change something with that attitude?" a paper slid forward. "For years, the Tower and Westminster have been targets for many the anti-British terrorist. They are the symbols of the queendom; for what shall happen if they are seized?"_

"_These are," the Irishman said breathlessly. "The plans to the Tower of London." _

"_Precisely," the figure seemed to shake with mirth. "And so our deal is done, yes? The puppeteer gets to keep the Liberalists, and the Irishmen get their recognition."_

"_Yes," he bowed."_

"What a political scandal," Ira sighed, the Undertaker removing the scythe from the man's face and gently wiping it on the corpse's clothing. "Seems like Gladstone's reign as prime minister is coming to an end again, eh?"

"Quite," the Undertaker agreed, wondering all the time again why humans chose to weaponize greed and use genocide as marketing. Hadn't the Anglo-Saxon churches always preached heaven?

As they left the crumbling tower, Ira couldn't help but notice the absent presence of the demon butler. Had he run back to his prospect dinner? The pair traveled to the backyards of London quite inconspicuously, unbeknownst that there were a pair of red eyes watching their direction.

"Dear Undertaker," she said, stretching her legs out as she sat down on a coffin. "I haven't seen you in a while." She hated this 'catching-up' business, but it was true.

"You've been traveling," he pointed out, his demeanor changed just as the last customer of the day had left. "When was the last time you've been to England?"

"Not lately," she chuckled, biting into one of his bone-shaped cookies. "Most of them got up and left after that one Black Plague incident, and I went, too. Been around. I trust you stayed put?"

"Moved around a bit through Britain," he shrugged. "Mostly London; had to go because I couldn't stay without drawing attention for too long."

"You work underground anyway," she pointed out. "So many people believe in the supernatural, it's surprising nobody's _noticed_ about you."

"You know me," he grinned, and then sobered up. "But what's the big issue that you're back here so soon? I expected that you'd nearly never come back."

"Stalking a demon and his pet," she narrowed her eyes. "There was apparently a demon summoning ring and I went to reap them, since their souls were due. This noble boy was just the ticket to what they wanted, apparently, and the demon ended up making the Faustian Contract before I could do something about it. Turns out the demon was the one that was releasing their souls."

"I've heard of him," the Undertaker nodded, offering her some tea. She accepted it gratefully, blowing on it lightly before sipping at it. She waved at him to continue. "Few years ago, the Phantomhive's family manor burnt down. Big scandal that it was, every that resided in the mansion died, all except that little earl Ciel and he was kidnapped right afterwards. Suppose you know the rest of it, but recently he got his title back from her Majesty, and acting as the Queen's watchdog like his family had before. Doing a fairly good job at it, too."

"Seems so, if the demon hasn't eaten him yet," she mumbled. "The Faustian seal. He wants revenge. Any idea who it is, and what for?"

"That I cannot say," he said finally, getting up from his seat. "Say it's for the people who sought to murder his family. Although I can reassure you the supernatural world will get ahold of the answer much faster than the kid does for himself."

"Wouldn't be too sure of that," she wondered out loud. "What with that demon—Sebastian, was it?—tailing him around." She sighed, her fingers tracing over her scarlet tresses. Pulling the retracted scythe from its hold on her hair, she released its latch and ran a finger over its silver blade. "I'll be the one to reap him." She didn't say exactly who she was going to reap. She didn't even know how she was going to accomplish such a feat. The demon was powerful—probably far more powerful. Who knows when he'd begun his descent from Heaven?

How long had his soul been tainted with the black breath, that sinful gore that brought those who sought power to their knees? The body and soul were dichotomized under him; each entity a separate issue that the poor man had to deal with. How treasured it was to elevate the body to the level of the soul, to draw in his prey and wrap them around his finger, to confront taboos and live wickedly.

There would be no such confrontations in a reaper's descent. Ira shivered unwillingly, and the Undertaker laughed. "You are no ordinary reaper, in any case. How prodigal of you to use your talents unwisely."

"How pretentious of you to speak to me in that way," she narrowed her eyes, spinning her scythe in one hand and returning it to its minimized hair, tucking it into her hair. "Just because I never joined that _idiotic_ organization of reapers? If I do recall, you left and stole your scythe back. Hypocritical, isn't it? For any other cause," she added hastily, not wishing to fight, doing this before the man opposite her could retort. "I am not in any way, normal. However… however supernatural, that it is about my existence, I do not believe that any reaper is compatible with this demon. He is eccentric to say the least."

"Yes," he agreed, leaning back on his seat. "He is not the most normal of demons. He is bound by contract, but I only find that it makes him all the more powerful."

"It gives me something to do," she sighed again, standing slowly and pacing back and forth. "In a few months, Gladstone loses his reign yet again," she put on a pair of black glasses, perched on her nose bridge, and scrutinized the book she carried around with her. "This gives way to another temporary Conservative government until the blasted man's brought back to position again. I suppose we'll have to let him have his way; hard to mess with history. What I don't get is why the Queen is so adamant on having a Liberal as Minister. Sure, Parliament has a part in that, but they _mu__st _have seen her obsession with that Disraeli man."

"The Undertaker shrugged. "I've said time and time again that I dislike dear Victoria and the way she rules. Normal governments don't have people eating each other alive. They don't have children doing Scotland Yard's dirty work."

"I've been in American these few years," she said. "Because of that rificulous Civil War going on." She grimaced, chewing on a biscuit furiously. "If there's any qualms about a rotten nation fighting over the right of private property, it's the Americans. Strange little piggies they are," she let out a snort, and the Undertaker cackled at her insensitive statement. "By the way," she bit her lip. "Do you think… that perhaps I have a chance against this black butler?"

"No way," the Undertaker shrugged indifferently. "Unfortunately, we reapers only have files of humans.. this demon is a complete mystery. That is, unless you manage to snag his cinematic record."

"I have no desire in seeing the life of that monster," she laughed, getting up finally. "Unless his most important moments are of this boy, they are of no use to me. Ciel was his name, was it?" she took off her glasses and quietly tucked them away. "I'll be seeing you, then."

"Don't tell me—"

"Why not?" His answer was a shrug and a friendly nudge to the door.

"Go, then. Don't say I didn't tell you so."

It was then that Ira was on the streets, wondering exactly why she had bothered to take up her mission to destroy the demon who had stolen a soul from her. She was not a soul eater; rather one who ate minds and memories figuratively. Occasionally the reaper partook in soul collecting, but it was uncharacteristic of her to make it directly her goal to kill the filthy beings that gorged on human essence.

She remembered then in her conversation about the demon christened Sebastian, about his origins. His aura around her was strong enough to persuade her that he was one of the most ancient demons she had ever come across, and perhaps the most powerful yet. The look in those bloody eyes as he had ignored her commands and reached for the boy anyway; that hungry glare as he set the prison on fire like an animal. He _liked_ screams, he _liked_ fear, and most certainly, he liked the color red.

It was perhaps the only thing they had in common, the color red. She remembered a distressing time in her life when every incident that followed that day held the unmistaken glint of fresh red. Was it perhaps the flashes of light that sensually caressed her, or the lingering of blood on her weapon? It blended with the days, splattered the nights, haunted her dreams and reality until she hacked off her hair. But it'd grow back, it would, those phantom strands that drifted in front of her as she rode the wind. And so she lived forever damned from that day forth.

She grimaced at her memories. The only way, it seemed, to get rid of these menacing strands itching at her scalp was to tie it up.

And then it started to snow. Her breathe gathered in front of her in grey clouds as she wandered the streets, her feet leaving no indication on the plush white, as if she were never there. There was another thing she hated; snow. It was unbearable, the little snowflakes leaving vexing tingling feelings wherever they fell, its perfect whims ruined easily by human gatherings. Snow brought out the worst of men. It showed them that besides all their enmities, they could throw away their pride, greed, and wrath to gather around and _smile_. It was like a veil had been cast over false intentions.

Ira Grymselsen was ever the cynical perfectionist. It was then she realized that she had really no idea where she was going, pausing before a toy shop to inquire within. Surely a toy shop would know where the most famous child in the kingdom resided. "Excuse me," she said, enjoying the dry air that enveloped her as she entered the shop.

"This one's so cute!" a pink blur bumped into her before she could react. "Oh, I'm sorry miss!" A blonde and pink bundle was sprawled on the floor. Ira mumbled an apology before helping the child up. "Are you hurt?"

"No," she answered. What an energetic child.

"I'm sorry again!" the girl turned to whom she presumed to be her brother. "Come on, I have to buy Ciel som—"

"Ciel Phantomhive?" Ira had been listening in on the conversation while she was busy scanning for a worker. She turned around sharply to meet the girl's eyes. "The earl?"

"Yes," she said confusedly. "Do you know him? I'm his fiancée, Elizabeth Middleford!"

"Are you?" Ira said, surprised she was so lucky. She'd always been cursed with horrible luck. "Then you're just the person I'm looking for!"

"I am?" Elizabeth grinned. Her brother shot me a wary glance, but I ignored him. However, she frowned right afterwards. "Ciel doesn't take very well to strangers visiting all of a sudden…"

"I am but a loyal servant," she smiled gently, bending her knees into a slight curtsy. "It'd be my honor to serve the Middleford house as a maid, if you'd allow me. I've only just realized the return of the earl, you see; I've been out of country. It'd be my honor to serve anyone related to the Phantomhives, even if not directly." Elizabeth only grinned again, and Ira forced the corners of her own lips up. Checkmate.

"Welcome, then!" she took the reaper's hand only too trustingly before the brother could protest.

How naïve youth was.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Corner:<strong>

This chapter is pretty short, but I wanted to get up at least one before I took my SATs (wish me lots of luck, everyone). I thoroughly researched British history… on Wikipedia, but nonetheless, I came up with fruitful results. My take on this chapter is very much politically based. Gladstone was the Liberal Prime Minister in 1866, I believe, who was scrutinized and taken off the position after the Irish terrorist dynamite bombings of the Westminster Abbey and the Tower of London. _My_ take on this is that nobody really liked Gladstone's reforms (although this is not historically accurate, bear with me), and the Queen sent Ciel to take care of the Irishmen. Later on, this is used as an excuse to remove Gladstone, although he overpowers her rule by charming over the Parliament and the people and rising to Prime Minister yet again.

The Undertaker is just amusing, and Elizabeth does give Ira a path to Sebastian and Ciel. The Undertaker and Ira's ideals are hilarious; her ideals are so off because she refused to join the organization of reapers. By the way, Ira's name is 'wrath' in Latin, one of the seven deadly sins. Grymelsen is derived from 'grim,' which can be taken as grim reaper or the adjective.

I promise the next chapter shall be longer than this, and perhaps less rushed.

**Review Replies:**

VKM: From my 600 word-count introduction, I can't say that you can determine that my fic is 'like every other Kuroshitsuji fanfic out there.' In fact, I've never seen a fic that began that way, and I tried to step out of my box while writing this. I'm determined to change your stance on my writing, since it's so lacking for you.

Swaggmiento, promocat, and Hohoemiyotowani: I hope you stay along for the ride.

_**Review, please.**_


End file.
